The Secrets Hid in Heartbeats
by Lady Nightspike
Summary: A series of unconnected drabbles about Aizen and Momo. A dash of other Bleach characters-those closest to them. Latest update-Self-Direction. A small oneshot thanks to a small Aihina moment.
1. Four Drabbles

**AN: **So, these are my lovely (snark) Aizen/Momo drabbles. Safe to say they are pretty Momo-centric, more gen than romance, if A/M isn't your cup of tea. Although these are mostly unrelated, I've decided a few 'facts'--ie, my perception of the Bleach presentation of Momo's life/friends.

Momo has several layers to her life--a layer involving her family and her past with Hitsugaya, etc, a layer involving her friends at the academy (as far as we know, Kira and Renji, Shuuhei later on, Rukia early maybe?), and a layer involving her official duties for and not-so-official-worship of Aizen. Though that is probably self-explanatory, I just wanted to clear that up.

Some of these, I'm not totally happy with. But given the scarcity of A/M fics, I thought that fans of the pair might appreciate them anyway.

* * *

Drabbles

_Altitude_

As a young girl, Hinamori was aware that even though she had not stopped growing, she would never be tall.

Other children used to tease her about being short. Never Shiro-chan—he wasn't all that tall himself. But at least _he_ could look forward to growing taller, eventually. Once she hit a certain age, near the very end of her shinigami training, she accepted her fate with resignation: Kira and Renji would always tease her about her 'vertical problem', as they (so tactfully!) put it. There would be no five-inch growth spurt—there would maybe be another inch or two at best, but no more. What she dreaded the most was the day that Toshiro surpassed her and avenged years of teasing about his stature with the eternity he would have of being taller than she was.

But when she joined Squad Five, Hinamori's outlook changed.

On her very first day, Aizen-taicho himself summoned her to his office to welcome her, despite her youth and her lack of a seat—she was well-trained, quick, and very good at kidou, but she needed experience in combat. She needed to overcome her _size_.

But, as she came face-to-face with her idol, the reason _why_ she'd worked so hard, she came to a realization.

Aizen-taicho was kind, considerate. He saw her nervousness—that little head bobble and those red ears. So as she came closer, he smiled a smile that made her feel bubbly and warm, like uncorked champagne. He stood to greet her respectfully—even though she was only an unseated (as of yet, she promised herself) new recruit. "Welcome to my squad, Hinamori-kun." He extended a hand warmly; she moved forward to shake it.

The contact was as soothing to her as a warm fireplace welcomes cold visitors. She wished there was a kidou spell that could extend moments, or capture them vividly for future recollection. Some wild part of her vowed to invent one. (Thankfully, she never sought to fulfill that vow).

"Thank you, Aizen-taicho," reaching up to look, briefly, at those kindly eyes. If she could not be tall enough to look him in the eye, then she could do something far more important: she could stare into his heart.

* * *

_Shunpo_

Kira and Renji used to race each other at shunpo, but never her.

It was because she always won.

They would make bets, on little things, stupid things. Help with homework. Chores. Help with crushes. Kidou targets. In the beginning, Rukia would be there a lot, and she would always bet on Kira ("because Renji has always been slow in every way"). There was a hidden childhood joke in there, Hinamori sensed, smiling because they were, in a way, very similar to herself and Shiro-chan. She had been sad when Rukia had stopped coming to watch, although not nearly as sad as Renji himself. It became another element to his motivation.

Each of them had their own goals for when they became, when they grew up, crystallized into whatever they considered perfection. Kira desired to find an eclectic quasi-family of shinigami. He had told her, one late night when they were both stressed from too muh studying, the heartwrenching story of losing his parents. Hinamori had skipped class the next day to go see in grandmother in tears of gratitude. But she could understand Kira's lack, and thus desire, for an anchor: he had a name that was empty, and his nobility—minor or not—would be proven or disproven in his values. And his achievement. Kira knew he was good, if untested, but he did not want prestige, only security. A fixed name and a fixed spot, a fixed set of people. Even the squad officers were not secure in their positions; this was only pragmatic. But the top seats were always secure, because the top officers had different duties and special training and there was loyalty there. It was no longer merely about how well one could fight, but the quality of one's heart.

Renji on the other hand, sought prestige and power. Having survived on the streets for so long (which, after an angsty walk in the park had turned into further gratitude sessions with her grandmother), he was used to losing friends. He had no name to live up to or grow into—but he did have a label to break out of. If he wanted to become more than a street brat, he would need the strength to hold up under the weight of people's respect. He had never had respect, and he wasn't sure how it was made or broken. Hinamori could have told him that the answer was not merely in strength and power, but she'd doubted it would help.

As they learned, she saw Renji's goals evolve until they coalesced into the form of the beautiful Byakuya Kuchiki. She should have explained then that beating the elegant, rich, revered captain would not earn him the respect he wanted, but rather the respect of fear—the way a street kid yearns to beat the neighborhood bully. But she could only hope that, sucessful or not, Renji would come to know that for himself.

And she? Her goal had a name as well. _Aizen Sousuke_. She yearned, ever since her first time seeing him, to serve under him. He seemed to embody everything a shinigami should. She knew his lieutenant was powerful—there were rumors floating around that he'd already achieved Bankai—but she dreamt about that position for herself, to be able to walk around and have people say about her, "She's Aizen-taicho's lieutenant."

She knew it was silly, girlish, idealistic, but she believed very strongly (as Kira did) that more than experiences and power and prestige, it was the people gathered around her, the people with whom she shared love and kindness, who made everything have meaning. And where better to find such people than in a division led by the most compassionate, skilled yet humble man she had ever known?

She was the first of the three to achieve lieutenant, that post of which they had never _really_ spoken (though there had been some shared fantasies about their life post-Academy…). The day that it happened, Kira and Renji took her out to dinner to celebrate. She had never been so happy in her life—she had gotten her dearest wish, to serve under Aizen-taicho…to be needed by him.

To her great amusement, once their congratulations had worn down and the food was mostly gone, Kira and Renji started a bet on which one of them would make lieutenant first—and of course, in what division, since the Fifth's slot was irrevocably filled. Hinamori groaned and wished for Rukia to come and deliver a well-timed insult. "Come on," she said to them, "this isn't some sort of game! What can you possibly wager that will make this competition worthwhile?"

Several years later, long after Kira had become Ichimaru-taicho's new lieutenant (the old one didn't cope well with the adjustment and Ichimaru-taicho had always had an eye on Kira) and Renji had left for the Eleventh, Hinamori got her answer. One innocuous day, she had finished her work early and was on her way to a meeting between her squad and Squad Twelve when she bumped into Renji. "Oh! Renji-kun! I'm so sorry!" As she knelt to help him retrieve the pile of papers, she couldn't help but notice that they were Third Division's forms, nominally filled out by a certain Kira Izuru.

As Renji's eyes met hers, she raised her eyebrows in amusement.

"Worst bet ever," muttered Renji.

Hinamori tried really, _really_ hard not to laugh as she shunpo'd towards the Twelth, using her speed mainly to hide her glee. She was very grateful that she'd never felt the need to race.

* * *

_Gentle_

Men had not been a part of her childhood. Sometimes they scared her with their size, their roughness. Even Renji and Kira—especially Renji—could be clumsy, unmindful. Another girl would never knock down a picture by accident with a rogue shoulder or disturb the careful way she had folded her laundry. And yet, Kira and Renji were her best friends now. And so even though after every visit there was inevitably something she had to straighten out, it was a learning experience. She watched them often when they weren't aware of it, vaguely critiquing the crudeness of their actions.

Aizen-taicho was her future. She had a picture of him in her dorm room (a picture that she'd obtained, somewhat guiltily, from official records of his challenge for captaincy. Someone had taken an excellent shot of Aizen alone, eyes closed as he drew his sword. A lock of hair had fallen across his face. He did not look like he was about to fight a pitched battle. He looked utterly confident, in control, and yet totally graceful. Hinamori had studied that photo obsessively, wondering where she could get one of him with open eyes.

In him Hinamori could see, in the way he moved, that he was always careful—that every nuance was self-aware. More than that, she sensed he was gentle. He would never cleave his way through any environment without knowing that he was a part of it.

This was proven when she joined his division and could observe that even the small movements he made were perfectly controlled, and that he could hold a young woman's hand without making her feel small or smothered. She would never have to straighten anything out for someone of Aizen-taicho's dexterity and caution. All of his perceptions were accurate and minute—he even noticed when she'd trimmed her hair. She loved him for the lightness of his touch and his delicate understanding of human psychology.

A long while later, to her dismay, Hinamori learned that all her observations about his qualities were true, and that even gentle can be cruel.

* * *

_Mirror_

She cried.

She tried to imagine Aizen-taicho, the one she had served, going to Tousen and presenting him outright with his plans. She could picture it done the way that Aizen-taicho would carefully craft his logical responses when Difficult Questions arose. Here, Tousen. You desire the least amount of bloodshed possible. What if I told you that there was a way to prevent bloodshed ever again? Of course, there would be a struggle at first, but it will be a necessary one to bring forth a new world order.

If Aizen-taicho had taken such a route (and this was all merely speculation) then it would have been quintessentially him—logical core, manipulation of ideals, knowledge of where to place the desired illusion…

Every quality he had was double-edged. That was why she knew that Aizen-taicho, despite being a 'persona', was Aizen Sousuke—perhaps with some fake acting, but not much. How else could someone live a part for so many years? No, Hinamori knew where the illusion lay—in the choice to use one's powers for good or ill. Aizen had merely chosen, for a series of years, to cleave to the former for the sake of the latter.

That was why she could still admire him. Or was it because she still carried around the sheer irrational impulsive affection…it scared her.

It scared her because she knew that just as she had served him before, she could do so again. Yet perhaps not. She had no surety now; she swung back and forth like a pendulum between two wholly opposite opinions. Was he wrong? Was he right? Could she? Could she not? But her love…it remained. Even if she chose to fight against him—or to abstain, which, given her fragile condition, would be excusable—she would always love him.

No one had told her that Aizen-taicho had killed her out of mercy. But she didn't need to be told. She was so lost; she wanted his advice. But how crazy would that be?

She imagined his hand upon her hand in consolation. She imagined his warmth floating into her. She begged for his strength and it was not given to her. She cried.

As she turned, she caught her reflection in the mirror. She looked dead—red eyes, white skin made even whiter by the harsh spotlight of the moon, mouth slack with drunken tears in a semblance of death.

She wondered about Ichimaru. What loyalty did he feel towards Aizen-taicho? She understood that Aizen had always considered Ichimaru his second-in-command, but she knew it was because Ichimaru knew about Aizen's real plot. What could she be to Aizen that Ichimaru was not? Probably nothing. He had been an able (if disliked) captain, and she knew his abilities outranked hers, as did his place in Aizen's heart. She reconstructed a thousand scenarios in her head as to why…it was harder than with Tousen. More uncertainty to fill in. Too much.

Ichimaru, in return for not being very popular, had made sure that the details of his life were private—even to those who were, to some extent, in it. Hinamori failed to come up with any explanation based on fact. Even she had never really seen her captain and Ichimaru interact significantly.

"And what about you, Momo?" she asked the mirror. "What will you do now that the illusions are gone? Can you make any sense of him now?" The mirrored Momo was trembling slightly and her hair was dull, listless.

"It must be true," she decided. "You can't live without him. At least you might feel alive again if he were there…even if it were only for a minute…only long enough for him to finish it right…" sobbing she had a moment of weakness. She found she resolve, as always, in Aizen-taicho…no, _Aizen-sama_.

She began to open a gate (a skill she never thought she'd actually need but that was taught as emergency measures to those exceptionally skilled at kidou). The darkness was like a voracious mouth opening wide. Beyond it there was desert and a cold moon. It looked as windswept and desolate as her heart. "Not backwards, only forwards," she counseled herself. "I am a reflection of his will, because I love him."

As she rode her reiatsu towards the vision of the desert, she wondered what reason people would believe for why she followed him. Though all might guess love, respect, desperation, dependence, she doubted any would add any insights as to the nature of reflections to truth.

"Aizen-sama?" He was waiting in the desert; he had caught her when she fell—her path had ended unexpectedly.

He smiled down at the girl he carried in his arms. "Hinamori-kun," he said, "you came for me."

"What is going to happen to me, Aizen-sama?" So happy now, safe and secure. It didn't matter what the future carried. _These moments now_ were all she wanted.

Abruptly Aizen-sama put her down in the sand. She stood, facing him. He was down on one knee, eye to eye with her. They were warm. They were cold.

"You," he answered smiling, "have passed my last test of loyalty. Close your eyes, please, Hinamori-kun."

She shut out the world. But she could feel him closer, closer...

* * *

So, that is that. I would appreciate reviews, but ehh, you know how it is. I may or may not have more lurking in my brain.

* * *


	2. Resolution I

Celebrate! I turned in my thesis yesterday! It was 100 pages (falls to floor, exhausted).

This is a bit longer than a drabble so I removed the 'drabble' specification. How long IS a drabble anyway? Okay, well, expect the later parts soon...the second is nearly done being written and the rest follows from that.

Thanks for reviewing!

_Resolution I_

It wasn't so much that she had once loved him, she thought, looking up at the moon. No, there had never been any romantic love in her heart for Aizen. There had only been a blinding sun, risen in her heart, which had cast all her other loves into shadow.

She recalled the night she had awoken, bathed in the rays of the moon. That had been the night the sun had set for her—the night Aizen had dispelled the illusion of love holding her heart.

After that, she had been bereaved, blinded by the loss of the intensity that had once fueled her life. But one day, and almost guiltily, Matsumoto had happened.

'Happened' because Matsumoto was her own phenomenon—almost the opposite of Momo's shy girlishness, Rangiku was loud, flirtatious, and not only wore her heart on her sleeve, she then went around shoving this metaphorical sleeve—along with her copious breasts—into whoever's face was closest. Just in case she had not driven the point home.

Momo had not been allowed to do very much in the war, and it was over rather quickly. She shut her ears whenever she heard rumors or reports about Aizen's capture, his upcoming execution, the fate of others in Hueco Mundo and Karakura Town—both enemies and friends.

All of a sudden, everything was closing up, being resolved, and there was no more war to fight, only the formal _coup de grace_ that would destroy Aizen for good. It was only then that Matsumoto had (as Momo had later learned) approached her Taicho clad in the emotional sleeve most commonly known as _Matsumoto's Wrath of God, _or, _Major PMS._

Thankfully this particular mindset rarely manifested, much more rarely than the once a month that Matsumoto happened to loudly 'be a woman' in order to provoke Hitsugaya to new heights of icy rage, a task which she saw not so much as suicidal on her part, but rather as a sick sort of sport.

Hitsugaya, for his part, knew something was wrong when he had come into his own division—early as usual—to find Matsumoto sitting at his desk, finalizing a stack of paperwork he had anticipated would take her approximately thirty-five times longer to complete. "Matsu—"

It was at that moment that Rangiku looked up. Someone had set a bonfire in her silvery eyes and they glistened with a peculiar moonlit rage. "Taicho," she said, sounding more like his wrathful grade school teacher than his trusted subordinate, "don't you care about Hinamori-fukutaicho?"

"What kind of a question is that, Matsumoto?" Clearly a ridiculous one. Hitsugaya crossed his arms. "She's been my best friend since—"

Wrong. _Very_ wrong. Matsumoto stood, using her height against him. At that moment he sincerely wished to be back in Hueco Mundo fighting all ten Espada at once; his own single combat with the Cuatra Espada took on a hazy nostalgia in his memories. "THEN WHY ARE YOU IGNORING HER?"

"Meep," said Hitsugaya, pouring sweatdrops.

Matsumoto took that as permission to continue. "YOU CLAIM YOU CARE, BUT YOU'VE ABANDONED HER AT THE TIME WHEN SHE NEEDS HER FRIENDS THE MOST. UNOHANA-TAICHO CONTACTED ME, ME! BECAUSE SHE WAS WORRIED ABOUT HINAMORI'S RECOVERY AND SHE DIDN'T THINK YOU CARED!!"

Hitsugaya, filled with remorse, let one tear fall. It froze before it could reach the ground. "I-I don't…Matsu, she's just not…I can't help her!" The temperature dropped slightly, hopefully cooling off his fukutaicho's ire. "I went by a few times…but…Momo-chan…she's not like she used to be, and I can't wield Hyorinmaru and slice it all away and…"

"I'm sorry, Hitsugaya," said slightly more normal Matsumoto. With a sad smile she rushed over to him from behind the desk and scooped him up in a big, suffocating, hug. For once he didn't mind, since it meant that _Wrathful Angry Matsumoto _had gone away for the time being. "I was just so angry, I mean, I should have thought about how it was hard for you to…you know…"

Putting him down so he could breathe again, she continued, "Well, Hitsugaya-taicho, I don't know Hinamori-san as well as you do, but I think that this is a job for both of us, right? Why don't we go together and we'll make her all better, I promise!"

Hitsugaya, looking into her sincere eyes, soft as moonbeams, fell a little more in love with his fukutaicho in that instant. He hadn't known that Matsumoto could be so nurturing, so concerned, for the sake of someone she knew very little, but knew he cared about. "Thank you so much," he whispered, taking her hand in his. "Shall we go?"


	3. Ships Passing

What? Yet another update?

I woke up with this idea in my head. I'm not quite happy with the way it turned out, but I think its heart is in the right place.

Also, in case you were wondering, I don't own Bleach. I'm pretty sure that any anime I was in charge of would turn out very differently than Bleach...

And, this contains implicit (maybe slightly explicit) self-pleasure. If that disturbs you, well, move on... :-)

Thought to provide a bit of motivation for why he lets Hina be so damn dependent on him.

* * *

  


_Ships Passing…_

Aizen Sousuke had a secret.

It was his favorite secret, much loved, much treasured.

Everyone saw Hinamori-kun's strength, her perseverance, which had propelled her to the position of his second-in-command. Nevermind the fact that she wasn't a great fighter—there were other things that mattered, especially to him. But because she had worked so hard, most people thought she was a cute, friendly, robot: the kind of person they would willingly work with, but not really friendship material. She had been so intense on the way up, that now she had found that she had isolated herself from nearly everyone around her. Even her best friends from the Academy, Kira and Renji, were more distant now, though it was mainly due to the fact that she had made lieutenant before them (something which chafed their egos).

And so in a way, Aizen Sousuke had become—and was aware of this fact—the most personal figure in her life, despite being her commander. Moreover, he was the only one privy to her internal life…and he was quite good at reading her moods, even though she tried to cover up her loneliness with her pleasant manner.

He wanted to share this Hinamori with the world. Her sheer sweetness of being, so obvious to him, hid itself from everyone else. How could anyone possibly think she was too intense, too impersonal?

He worried about what she would have, when she no longer had him. Stupid, irrational, but there it was.

Finally, he decided to confront her about her social life. Late one night, impulsively, he had walked over to her quarters, hesitating at the door handle. Dare he wake her? He felt guilty at how long it had taken him to do this…perhaps he could talk to her tomorrow? But then he thought he heard a noise from beyond the door. He paused, and listened carefully.

Muffled though it was, breathy, ashamed, he could hear low sounds, almost like singing, arrayed for his ears in growing intensity. His eyes hardened and he blinked several times, caught between the peaceful world of the night and the obvious pleasure of his little fukutaicho. But at the last, he heard, as gentle as a puff of wind, "Aizen-sama", caress his ears. He withdrew his hand from the door as though it had been burned, swishing away in his captain's haori, deciding in his mind that he would never share her.

He walked away, his heart beating a little faster. But he knew, from the whispers in his blood, that he would return.

* * *

And that's that. I imagine this as going unrequited, but the thought of Aizen passing by Momo's door whenever he needs a pick me up is sheer delicious fun.


	4. Symmetry I

And, I'm back! I still don't own Bleach (am saving my pennies, though). I am working on the two ficlets in progress that are now part of this lovely set of whatevers...

Symmetry does have some one-sided (or really, no-sided) HitsuHina in it. But, it is all part of le plan. The fic is mainly humor and has a lot of Matsumoto in it...she comes off kind of ditzy, but this is light-Matsu...not serious Matsu...and I think it's pretty IC. I hope.

Hopefully I will update in a couple of days.

Review me! It gives me hope that some people are reading this set of stories...

_Symmetry I_

Every once in a while, Aizen liked to stretch his 'evil' muscle. So when Matsumoto Rangiku showed up at his door late one night, he was suitably intrigued.

"Aizen-taicho?" the woman sang, "I need to talk with you about Hinamori-fukutaicho."

He slid the door open quietly, asking, "What is it?" as the woman edged past him and into his quarters.

"Well," she said, drawing the syllable out into its own dimension, "I think my taicho fancies her."

Aizen blinked. He couldn't imagine Hitsugaya fancying anyone, but he supposed that Momo was a logical choice…they'd been close once, although professionalism to some extent kept them apart. "Aww. Isn't that cute?" he said, deciding that Matsumoto wanted him to be indulgent.

Thankfully, Matsumoto didn't notice the too-loud quality in his voice that betrayed his insincerity. It was drowned out by her own impending excitement. "Oh yes! I've been wanting to hook him up for ages! My taicho needs to learn how to relax and enjoy himself! Wouldn't it be so cute if they got to date!"

Aizen almost gagged as that thought rose in his brain like bile, but managed to smile as if he agreed. "Quite." He was suddenly happy that Matsumoto didn't have an inclination towards evil, since both her information-gathering resources and her single-mindedness (and tacit authorization of 'any means necessary') surpassed his…at least when the issue at stake was one of importance to her. Thankfully, the only things that seemed to be of true importance to her were parties, the happiness of her friends, and herself. Even so, her propensity towards chaos, gossip and disaster was legendary.

He was certain that Matsumoto had thought of a plan. An Evil Plan. There was no one who was the subject, specimen and victim for Matsumoto more than Hitsugaya himself, and she was surely not at his door at this hour merely to disseminate gossip. No, she could—and probably would—make Hitsugaya even more miserable…all in the interests, of course, of his 'happiness'.

Since Matsumoto was waiting for him to say something more, he asked, "And how did you find out this information? Are you certain that—"

"Trust me," she injected, "I am one-hundred percent certain…but…I'm not sure that you want to know how I found this out."

Aizen shuddered. "Then I will put my faith in you," he said, hoping to bypass the awkward turtle that had suddenly waddled into the room.

"Great!" she chirped. "So, then, I'll let you in on my secret!" She acted as if this was a bigger deal than, for instance, exposing Hitsugaya's very private feelings to an acquaintance—after having heard of them through some illicit and vaguely disturbing means…

She leaned forward, and, unfortunate as it was, Aizen was already caught in the trap. He _was_ rather interested in learning her plot, and he knew it involved Hinamori so he had a personal stake. "The Shinigami Women's Association is holding a ball!" she squealed, causing him to jump back suddenly.

This moment, he thought to himself, would be an entirely appropriate occasion for a sweatdrop.

--

And...convenient stopping point, yay! I will have the rest of this, and another couple drabbles, out soon.


	5. Symmetry II

Yes. two updates in one night!! Hooray!! Actually, blame caffeine...I had a soda right before 'bedtime' and now 'bedtime' is like, 'distant dream time'.

Right. This contains some actual romance...well, very little, but it's still there. ZOMG they like actually touch each other!!...umm yeah. Don't read it if you're under, um, 10.

Hopefully the next part will be out very soon.

_Symmetry II_

Hinamori shifted uncomfortably. This was the fiftieth meeting or so the Women's Society had had that dealt with the ball, and unlike the last forty-nine, someone had worked a miracle and given Yachiru something so distracting that _she was actually paying no attention to the meeting whatsoever_. Which meant that the others could actually accomplish something.

Soul Society's facilities included a grand ballroom that hadn't been used in at least ten years, so there were cleaning and renovation activities to do on top of invitations, hiring photographers and caterers, decorating, music, and all the normal plans one must make when throwing a massive dance. Moreover, Matsumoto was clamoring for elegance—the decorative color scheme was done in a shade of dark sapphire and silver, and it was her Special Mission to ensure that nothing looked cheap or tacky. Hinamori had been stuck helping Matsumoto, which meant that she was forced to go on numerous shopping occasions or online browsing 'parties' that Matsu had along with the rest of the committee. The eyestrain alone was exhausting her; for the first time in her life, Hinamori was having trouble completing her duties as a lieutenant. Worse still, since invitations had not been issued yet, she couldn't explain to her captain _why_ she was so tired and unproductive all the time.

But the worst part of all was the way that Matsumoto was always _looking at her_. Not that Matsumoto had an ugly face or anything, but she had taken to looking at Hinamori the way she looked at Hitsugaya right before a horrible prank exploded in his face—expectant, self-satisfied, amused. It was the sort of look that made Hinamori jump at shadows. She didn't think that Matsumoto would prank her, precisely…but she worried about what it meant.

She was having serious trouble paying attention to the meeting and was dreaming about going home and falling asleep when all of a sudden there was a loud boom! from the corner. She shot up from her chair, thinking that perhaps her faith in Matsumoto was misplaced and this was all a terrible mistake and shouldn't she have said something when she noticed that Yachiru had fallen off her podium.

"What," Nanao was saying calmly, as Unohana examined Yachiru, "did you give her?"

The question was, horrifically, addressed to Matsumoto, who shrugged and said, "Just some sake…"

"MATSUMOTO!" bellowed Nanao, in the exact tone of voice and volume often utilized by Hitsugaya. "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?"

"That we have a ball to plan?" Matsumoto answered calmly. "How else were we supposed to get things done?"

After a bit of debating, the women agreed that Yachiru should head the renovations and cleaning committee, since that way she could do no lasting damage to the elegance of Matsumoto's ball, and that Nanao herself would make sure that all the necessary clean-up and repairs get done. Finally, the meeting was over. Hinamori raced out the door using shunpo so that Matsumoto could not catch her and ask her, "Hina dear, do you have just five minutes?" Hinamori had long since started having nightmares about Matsumoto popping in at random moments to ask her that very question…

Hinamori decided that she would take her paperwork home with her and complete it after a long nap, so she stopped into the Fifth Division's office on her way. Aizen was, thankfully, not around—she vaguely recalled that he was training recruits all day. As she leafed through the stacks of papers—where were those damn requisition forms again?—she heard a voice saying her name.

"Aizen-taicho!" she stood to attention, nearly falling over in the process.

"Hinamori-fukutaicho," he said, in a very serious tone of voice. "May we talk?"

Something inside of her wailed that she had failed, that he was going to replace her with someone more efficient, that here came the reprimand she had been waiting for for at least two weeks…but she was too tired to be very afraid, and reckoned that this might be a good moment to tell him about the ball.

Aizen-taicho shut the door and locked it. He stepped forward and slowly bent on one knee to look at her. "You need rest," he said. With his other hand he waved something in front of her face—the invitation to the ball! "I hear you've been very busy with planning."

"Yes taicho," she said, quietly. "But that does not excuse me from my regular duties." She looked him in the eyes then, those beautiful, captivating eyes. "I am truly sorry, Aizen-taicho."

"Nonsense," he said, brushing her cheek carefully. "You look very tired. I understand that Matsumoto has been rather hard-nosed about 'her' ball. Starting tomorrow, I'm putting you on light duty until the event itself." She opened her mouth, but he continued, "The moral of Soul Society depends not on the efficiency of its work, but on its strength as a group of shinigami—and those bonds are forged not just through battle and training, but also through revelry. You have an important duty in planning this event, and one of the seated officers can fill out paperwork just as well as you can."

The contact of his hand held her, fixed in place, as though she was asleep in those cinnamon eyes…"Thank you, Aizen-taicho," she said, blushing a bit.

"However," he said, snapping the spell as he withdrew his hand, "there is an important duty that you and you alone can perform. To show solidarity in our division, I would like you to accompany me to the ball…unless you have other plans?"

Hinamori opened her mouth to say something terribly elegant and demure. Unfortunately no sound came out of her mouth and she felt her blush deepen. "Um, no," she squeaked out right before Aizen was going to say something else. "I would be um, pleased to uh, go with you, taicho—Aizen taicho, to show the solidarity between us…I mean, our division." _Curses! _thought her internal crush-modulating mechanism. _What a failure that was!_

Aizen smiled and said, "That's settled then. But let me know if some young swain asks you to go with him—I'd be happy to let you go. Now go and get some sleep before you fall over. That's an order, fukutaicho."

"Y-yes, taicho," she said. Shaking from the contact, reeling from the implacations—she had a date!! (well, a sort-of date) with her captain!!—and stumbling from lack of sleep, Hinamori walked home with a huge smile on her face, so dizzy from the confrontation and the lack of sleep that she was certain any shinigami who saw her would think her drunk. She would absolutely have to remember to thank Matsumoto later--'to show division solidarity' was a phrase that reeked of Matsumoto's designs. Matsumoto had gotten her a date with Aizen-taicho! "EEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!" she shrieked later, after she had gotten a safe distance away from her division, jumping up and down like Yachiru after a sugar overdose.

The Eleventh Division's seated officers, perplexed, just stared.

* * *

And so, that is the story of how Matsumoto always gets her way...except, where is Hitsugaya? He'll be making an appearance in the next part, so don't worry!


	6. Endgame

Very dark fic. I wasn't sure where this one came from, but it's certainly different than the other stuff I've got up here.

It's certainly proof I don't own Bleach, since the series has not ever produced anything quite this...nihilistic...

_Endgame_

Even the gods are lonely.

He is a god of illusions. They were his power. They forged his power. They are his power.

He cannot elude himself. He is there, burning bright, wherever he turns, infused with narcissistic despair and self-rejection, self-acknowledgement.

He has found revulsion and failure in his success. But it is not the darkness he toyed with, the tainted power of the Hougyoku, the Shinigami he slayed and subjugated. It is not the total destruction of Japan, the slaughter of countless humans, the twisted experimentation.

Aizen Sosuke deals in images, and there is one image that towers over him, mocking all his power, so long as he exists. It is Hinamori—yet it is not Hinamori—wearing a stolen gigai—wearing her own face.

America, they call it the land of promise. But for Aizen, it was a world of ending, bitter ending.

In his mind, he replays his ascension again and again.

The creatures he shaped—of whom she had been the first—were meant to be discarded. Those he had not already sacrificed or lost, he laid out on the altar of his triumph. For what now was a Hollow, an Arrancar, an Espada? Nothing, to be sure, once he had dethroned the heavens themselves, accessing the power of the king and using it, incandescent like a mantle, to topple the unwary gods. After that point, they could offer him only the pleasure of their destruction.

Ulquiorra—unsurprised yet faithful, sickeningly faithful—had held out the longest. All the others, even Gin and Tousen, named their servitude, _freedom_, their endings, _betrayal_. Ulquiorra had known his last duty to Aizen was to feed his master's power. The depth of Aizen's feelings was revealed when Aizen, threatening to make Ulquiorra 'as blind as Tousen', found he could not squelch the verdancy of those eyes. And thus Ulquioora remained the only one of Aizen's subordinates who could see.

Aizen's life—an eon of waiting in the Seiretei, waiting before wanting, wanting, as a lowly noble, without having, waiting quickening—had been its most eventful in the months after his official break from Soul Society. But what Aizen now chooses to experience—for in his power he has surpassed Memory—is a single night as captain of the Fifth Division…besides of course, the thought-dream that haunts him, Hinamori in red. Pinned between these two movements he experiences a binary division, a fundamental rift.

"Aizen-taicho?" It is late enough for a symphony of crickets, though not quite midnight—the time by which, he has pledged, done or not, he will retire. But still, his heartbeat is like a faltering candle and he is out of touch with his whole life, startled like a dove at her gentle voice. Tired enough that the world makes no sense.

"Hinamori?" Everything in him shifts in her presence. Instead of a vague ache, a restless unease, his soul is cooled, calmed. Something in him laughs because he once believed this mere camaraderie, chemistry. Not the self-assurance one has when one utterly possesses another.

That calm is bitter now, because he knows himself to be bereft.

He remembers this about her—her slow, deft, hesitant walk. The way her fear, her awe of him, seem so close to the surface of her. The pale golden peach of her lips. The spot on her neck that could bend her head forcibly, as if in prayer…this trembling sweetness is known to him as Hinamori Momo.

Shy, yet eagerly, she holds out her hands. "I bought you—uh, I mean, the office—a gift." He knows exactly what she means.

In her extended hands she offers him the gift of an unlikely life…a spirit fish, a creature formed of reiatsu, native to SS. "I thought maybe we could get him a bowl…"

She hangs there, with her words, offering, as Aizen deliberates carefully. Time etches its deepness on the moment while he wonders at the implications of gratitude, impersonality, warmth…and a small, hidden part of him dreams of cruelty, of crushing the chrysalis of potential.

Cruelty, he cannot afford.

He settles on something just as unlikely, just as hesitant. "Hinamori-kun." The familiar was new to her then, as it was to him; it would become for them an expression of affection, however misguided. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness." Casting a rueful look around, he adds, "Certainly this office is a bit sparse. But I feel bad for this fish. It may have been born spontaneously, but someone captured it and put it into a cage, where it has been ever since."

She blushes, beautiful in her heedless cruelty. Red with shame and the failure of her gambit, he rescues her in his own kindness, saying, "But thank you, Hinamori. Without your idea, we never would have had this opportunity." Her head lifts, chin raised by his words.

They walk down to the Fifth division's private gardens, where there is a pond that suffices for the sort of freedom Aizen wants to bestow. Hinamori follows him, too small to be his shadow, content in their partnership.

Even so, there is something regal to her pace, a pride in their union, not easily dispelled by a brush of twilight…

Gently he cups her hands and she pours out the fish from its bag. He guides her as she looses that life, a small flash of red in the shimmering water. He has forced her to this. But she is willing, happy, in her defeat.

She has lost so much, unknowingly. But that sense of innocence is still her perfume; it is only riper in the face of his manipulation. She believes that together, they are creating life, freedom, and justice. But for now, she can rest beside the candles of her own illusions. It will make it all the sweeter when he leaves her in the dark.

Her face is writ with Death's decree; she can see Soul Society burning, the last resistance shattered. The battle from the sky is awe-inspiring and she hears her neighbors, in flat accents, discussing it. Is it a good omen?

She knows it is not. She feels the power ripening in him as surely as he sees her, suddenly aware of her location despite her skill in eluding him these past weeks. They are connected, still; the spreading calmness of her shadow is the growth of his power.

She fled Soul Society when she recovered from the terrible wound that he had given her—the physical one, at least. Her growing sense of panic caused her to reject her own face, her own identity. She becomes a faceless mask, and she pretends to be ignorant. She sees the people swimming like red fish, dying in droves around her. She flees even further, crying out at what her own hands have unleashed.

Aizen knows, even if he cannot find her, what she feels.

And, in that clarifying instant of power, he sees her once again.

The darkness in her eyes, the smile upon her lips, the mask of her disguise superimposed upon her shimmering image. She is there, holding a glinting silver object, and before he can _know_, once again, reeling with power as he is, what she is doing, she executes her action.

A second slash joins the first, twin motions of unbinding. Hinamori closes her eyes and wills herself to bleed. A hand outstretched, upon the floor. A spreading crimson dress, billowing in the wind, but the air is dry, flat. Then it is Death he remembers, and his resounding cry pierces her image.

She is as gentle as ever, fading like a rainbow. "Aizen-taicho," she says, voice cloudy with the dark. "No…more…cages…love…"

The accusation in her smile, in her last breaths of affection, overwhelms him. He cannot fall but he is falling, all the sweetness of the world spent. There is no comforting illusion for him; he feels the cage descend. Had he only _tried_ harder…

And Aizen Sosuke lets out a heaven-sundering wail and lashes out aimlessly at his own image. It is untouchable, invulnerable, transcendent. His hatred blossoms, his self-loathing, his self-knowledge. WHY is the rhythm of its heartbeat. He longs to crush that question, to blot out reason and memory and time itself. To annihilate the leftovers of everything.

But, he cannot.

He cannot answer himself without her. Nor can he be answered. Her existence, faded as it is, is its own paradox. And so he dives back into the image of the calm, driving his mind mad between the two divided illusions.

Even the gods…are lonely.

* * *

So, that's my lovely story. I will get back to Symmetry and Resolution now...


	7. Vision

It's short and from Gin's POV, but it's something.

* * *

_Vision_

Nothing was reflected in those eyes. "You killed him!" she shouted. "You killed my Captain!"

His mouth, its kansai-ben shape, smiled inside. On the outside, its corners appeared to lift slightly, as if perplexed.

His eyes, those crimson liars, perpetually closed. No one knew the irony—that only the blind could see.

Hinamori's eyes, though looking at him, were willfully blind. No light could pierce them—turned wholly inward, repulsed by the power of Aizen's sword…and his words, those immaculately sculpted weapons, polished and facetted that illusion.

Turning now. Turning to say whatever his mouth dared—knowing his disillusioned sayings to be wasted on her. The lies had nested in her brain and eaten at her heart. Whatever she mistakenly believed, was her truth.

Aizen's wishes be damned. He would stop her if she came at him now.

But even as she lifted her sword to carve out more reality in favor of lies, Kira, his loyal dog of a lieutenant, interceded. "I won't let you!" he shouted, blood running hot for his Captain's honor. Equally, outrage met outrage as their swords sparked. In their motions, Gin could see faith, loyalty, courage, love. In their actions, the invisible presence of deception, the master of fools.

Gin smiled. The illusions Aizen crafted were as delicate, in their way, as the falling of each cherry blossom. But Aizen was not the only one who could weave a beautiful falsehood.

* * *

Do you believe that saving her from disillusionment was a mercy?

This Gin...seems to have something up his sleeve...I guess we'll see...

Please R/R. The silence is sad. :-(


	8. Doujinshi

So, I got this idea because I now own waaaaay too many A/H doujinshi. I'm not a smut fan, but since you're buying from God knows where, sometimes it's all luck of the draw...so, in honor of my own feelings of embarrassment, I decided to write this.

Please review! You have no idea how much better it makes me feel about my story. Big thank yous to everyone who has reviewed!

Yeah, this is definitely T, and there is very definitely Death Note hentai actions being alluded to...right, and I don't own any of it. And no, I know of no chained L/Light/Misa threesome stories. Buuut...my mind apparently does???

* * *

_Doujinshi_

Aizen was used to all of Hinamori's moods, so potently expressed by her face. But this one was new—a mixture of awe, excitement, curiosity and…disgust?

It was so unusual that he spent a moment cataloguing exactly what it looked like, savoring the intense concentration as she steeled herself for another page. She looked as if she was swallowing a revolting but miraculous drug. "Oh," she breathed, a blush heating her cheeks. Suddenly she looked even more intense. Her hands twitched guiltily around the cover.

He didn't really understand what she was reading. From his angle he could only see the front cover; it had a picture of a harmless looking blond boy drawn anime style. The blond boy was sitting in a chair. The smirk on his face was half-sarcastic, half-smug, and he was holding a small black book. "Sweet Nothings", the cover read, in English. The phrase meant nothing to him.

"Hinamori-kun?"

"Ai-Aizen-taicho!!!!" Hinamori jumped up, guilt crossing her face, and threw the book onto the couch. "I…um, please forgive me!"

He smiled magnanimously. "It's okay, Hinamori-kun. We don't have much to do, so I don't begrudge you some reading time." However, she didn't seem at all placated. "What are you reading anyway?" he asked, stepping closer to the couch. "Is it really interesting? Because I—"

"TAICHO!" Hinamori screamed, flinging herself at him. Despite her small size she had caught him off-balance and he fell to the floor with a thud. Stunned for a moment, his hand snaked around the girl who was now on top of him to grab the book that Hinamori had tried to defend with her life.

"What's so—" He was cut off once again as Hinamori physically placed her hands on top of his, preventing him from opening the book.

"Taicho!" Unfortunately for her, Aizen, like most people, had two hands. He pried her hands away and clamped down on her back, forcing her cheek to his chest. Although she struggled, she was caught—and he could thumb through a book one-handed.

"So…what is this?" he asked as he started reading the story. It was a manga story, and so far the blond boy was bickering with another boy who looked like a raccoon…wait, was that a chain?

"Um…Matsumoto-san brought it to me from the human world…she said it would be…educational…" Hinamori said. He could feel the warmth from her blush spreading to his chest.

Aizen was about to ask how two boys who were inexplicably chained together in a manga could be educational when things got interesting. A girl walked into the room right as the blond boy ended the argument by kissing the raccoon-eyed boy. Instead of freaking out (as Aizen's eyebrows were) she proceeded to…undress…and…wait, was that what he thought it was?

Hinamori's struggles to extricate herself began once again as she realized what part he must be at. "Taicho, please don't!" she pleaded. "It's…"

"I'm curious as to what Matsumoto-san thought would be so interesting and educational, Hinamori-kun." The way he said her name made her feel even wilder, almost faint. She wiggled to the point where the book-holding hand joined the other one in the task of holding her down. His throat was exposed to her, since he was now reading the book at a sharper angle.

The girl in the book had lost some clothing on the right side of the page. It had fallen into a frame where certain things had come down and certain others had gone up. Oblivious to his fukutaicho's shame, the book continued to undress the three, um, protagonists and unabashedly pleasure them.

"Taicho!" He had reached the climax by that point. Hinamori's hand shot out, but she found she couldn't reach the book by grabbing for it sideways across her own back. Her hand snaked around his neck, attempting to get at it from that angle. "Taicho, please! This isn't…something you should know about…please excuse me…"

He didn't know where the raccoon boy was, but the girl very definitely…and in many senses…on top of the blond boy. They both looked naked and very, very eager. He was amused, rather than upset, at this latest plot of Matsumoto's. He hoped she had found Hitsugaya something similar…wouldn't that irritate him…or give him ideas…

He focused his attention on his lieutenant. He held the book just out of the grasp of her hand. Watching in amusement as she struggled to claim it, to prevent _him_ from soiling _his_ mind (and he didn't know if he should kill Matsumoto or not). "Is this what you want?" he teased. "Are you sure I should let you have it?"

Hinamori was rocking herself back and forth, trying to get at it. "Taicho!" she screeched laughingly, all but oblivious to the hand around his neck.

A vase fell to the floor outside the office door.

Abruptly, their heads turned towards the sound. "I'm glad you enjoyed the book," Matsumoto said, winking slyly. "Sorry for interrupting…I'll let you two keep at it!"

The door slammed shut again. Aizen finally threw the book away. "Hinamori-kun," he said to the now-still girl who was lying on top of him.

"Taicho?" she asked, her face beet red. "Why did Matsumoto-san sound so amused?"

He sat up quickly, found her eyes again. She sat bewildered in his lap. "Why don't you…" he said slowly, enjoying her shudder, "read the rest and find out?" One of his hands played with the exposed triangle of skin beneath her throat. Holding her closer, he shifted, letting her feel the parts of them that were touching, and thrust once. A harsh gasp escaped her—the sound was incredibly gratifying.

"I'll be back," he said, voice burning, "soon."

* * *

And, if I could write lemons/if this story was rated M, there would be more. Buuuuuut, I will leave that up to you!


	9. Disjunct

Annnnnd, I'm back! Isn't it funny? I wrote this, played around with it, and then decided that it was exactly what I wanted. Please review!

I don't own Bleach. Or my Muse. Because if I did, one would be different, and one would be _regular_.

* * *

_Disjunct_

She goes crazy.

It's not a pretty moment, but then again, there it is—it happens, so quickly and so undetectably, it could just be a fluke. But, of course, it's not.

Month after month of working by his side…it's a surprise, a part of her, the casual observer of her own life, remarks: a surprise that it took her this long. But one day she finds herself in her nightgown, trapped in her own quarters, too agonized to stay, too powerless to leave. At this moment she is the epitome of pathetic—she is imbued with the detritus of a thousand ambiguous conversations, and, studded like a moon and its craters (hot, flushed, wild craters), she is. She wonders what sort of terrible, reckless actions would result from her going outside—actions whose origins are in her own, uncontrollable mind.

She blames him.

Not because she can blame him, really…he's just being nice, just being there, just…_being_…and the fault is hers. The fault is hers because she takes his being and converts it into something much more sinister, something which affects her heartbeat, her smile, her hair-twirling and her voice tone. She hates what he makes her but wishes for it anyway.

That's all it is, months upon months of assault—of flirtation—that abandon her here, with a broken voice and tears seeping from every one of those impalpable craters. He juts like an obelisk from her core—tall, proud, unable to be ignored.

A million possibilities spring from that source. She wonders, in the course of her sobs, heartbrokenly recursive, what she can do that is different, what other life there is for her. She wonders if he will protest if she goes there.

No, no—it is all wrong. She can have her life, or some other. She can have him, in this half way, or she can have nothing at all. She—

The door opens.

That's not what she needs now, emphatically so. She's not that great with words, but they stumble out of her anyway, like fresh corpses tripping on her pointed chin. "Taicho, what…I—" She is in those words, and she knows them.

No! No she doesn't! Irresolutely, she turns away from him. His hand reaches out. It takes her arm. Slowly...slowly, it pulls her in.


	10. SelfDirection

Wow. You know that feeling when you haven't updated in awhile but it feels like you just did? Yeah, I need to get better at this.

I don't own. I thought that moment when Aizen senses Hina's reiatsu was worthy of this.

* * *

_Self-Direction_

If he in his good guise had chosen to idolize, to elevate her, it was his other half that chose to belittle her.

"You don't mean it," the smug sword whispered. Although she didn't make herself visible, he could feel a small hand, fisting his robes, at about the height of his chest.

He closed his eyes again—hopefully signaling to both of them that the conversation was over. Gin got the hint. But Gin was meant to play the role of the subordinate. Kyouka Suigetsu was something less—something more.

"Why would you react at all, if she were so insignificant?"

His lip curled derisively. His eyes refocused on the fight at hand, on watching the pawns as they were ground to dust. His heart fluttered, skipping like a stone over the water.


End file.
